


Cake, Cases and Other Fantastic Things

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221b Ficlets, Aftermath of Torture, Fluff, Genderswap, Happy Birthday Sherlock Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Parenthood, Rosie loves her godfather, Sherlock deserves a hug and he's going to get one, Spoilers, TLC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 06:12:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17340062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A collection of 221b ficlets and scenelets to celebrate Sherlock's birthday. Many Happy Returns!





	1. The Best Thing

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to commemorate Sherlock's special day and, well. Here we are. Some sad, some happy, some just a little bit sweet. _Sherlock_ is not mine, obviously. Not sure if Mofftiss even used the official date themselves considering the timeline and suspicious sunny look of The Lying Detective, but we work with what we're given. Enjoy!

* * *

This is the best birthday Sherlock’s had for a long time.

It starts with John turning up at the door, straight-faced and stoic and ends with cake and a cuddle with Rosie, bouncing on his lap in the café, a toast made with tea to his good health and recovery (John looks suitably guilty, tongue in cheek, even as he proclaims it) and to the next thirty-nine years of life (impressive; never thought he’d make it this far).  

The best part, though, is when John walks him back home, all the way up to the door and then grasps his arm – not grabbing, or snatching, just holding and carefully prompting Sherlock to look around at him. Says nothing for a moment, although he tries, inhale-exhales, before clearly thinking _Oh, sod it_ and hugging him, wrapping himself around him carefully as though he’s something fragile, breakable, an encompassing hold that makes Sherlock feel warm, secure, protected.

‘I’m going to keep a closer eye on you from now on,’ he tells him finally, as they part. ‘I’m going to try and do better.’ He gives Sherlock a gentle shake, steps back with a slight cough, self-conscious. ‘I promise you.’

Sherlock smiles softly; reaches out, carefully, lightly, touches the side of John’s face.

‘It’s fine, John,’ he soothes. ‘I already feel a _lot_ better.’


	2. Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are strange things going on in London. Pre-SiP.

* * *

There are strange things going on in London and Sherlock is intrigued.

Two different people – a grown man (knighted, high-ranking, affair with his PA – obvious) and a young teenager (student, eighteen, part-time mechanic) have been found dead in suspicious circumstances, suicides that look like suicides but clearly aren’t.

‘If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, Sherlock,’ Lestrade groans over coffee in a subpar café that morning, pushing a hand through his hair in obvious frustration. Sherlock blinks at him from across the table, not really seeing the point.

‘Once you have eliminated the impossible…’ he raises an eyebrow; Lestrade waves an impatient hand around, draining his drink, eyeing the clock.

‘Yeah, yeah, alright. Have a good day.’ He grabs his coat, claps him on the back. ‘Happy birthday.’

Oh. Sherlock watches him go, startled. Yes, that’s right. Of course, Lestrade only has the information because of his police-file. His parents are away, but Mycroft will probably send a gift at some point. Besides Lestrade, that’s the full repertoire of mandatory birthday wishes, although Mrs Hudson might remember when he drops in to enquire about the flat. Still, that’s that; after all, he doesn’t have friends.

He does have the Work though and it’s waiting. Donning his coat, he steps out of the cafe and heads towards Barts.  


	3. Sound of Her Voice P1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is abducted. Featuring fem!John. Contains torture.

* * *

On the eve of his fortieth birthday, Sherlock is abducted and held in a cellar for several hours, regarding some quibble over a missing member of Parliament and some really quite important blueprints. They chain him to the wall (oh no, not again) and take turns with their demands, falling quite quickly into the realm of torture, fists hitting his stomach.

Joanna Watson really rather disagrees with their strategy and strides into the cellar two hours and seven minutes after Sherlock was taken, toting her gun and demanding her flatmate back, please and thankyou and you _really_ shouldn’t have done that. It’s truly spectacular to watch.

Afterwards, Sherlock lapses into unconsciousness, leaning on Joanna as she eases him to the floor and when he wakes up again, he’s in a hospital.

There’s tests and treatment and Joanna patches him up, all blue gloves and cotton wall, the tips of her fingers like the legs of mayflies, dancing lightly against his scalp.

Then he needs to throw up again and Joanna gets the bowl underneath him just in time, rubs his back, murmurs softly into his ear.

‘Where’s Rosie,’ he demands hoarsely on emerging, sipping the water she hands him; she smiles, slightly, mouth curving on one side.

‘You’ll see her soon,’ she promises and wipes away the last of the blood.


	4. Sound of Her Voice P2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Sherlock's abduction.

* * *

The day after Sherlock’s fortieth birthday, he’s released into Joanna’s care and she and Lestrade both take a side and hoist him into 221b, into the lounge with its crackling fire and beaming Mrs Hudson. Rosie is dozing on her mother’s chair by the fireplace.

‘Don’t let her see me like this,’ he pleads with Joanna as they take him to his room for a lie-down; her brow furrows, she opens her mouth to say something but is interrupted by Lestrade’s grunt of ‘Okay, down you go, mate,’ as they lower him onto the bed.

He goes away for a while, slipping into a dreamless doze and when he wakes up, it’s night and Rosie is standing by the foot of the bed, all two-and-a-half years and thirty-three inches of her (she’s inherited both her parents’ slight penchant for shortness).

‘Hello, Watson,’ he greets; Rosie’s face breaks into a smile and she brings forth a sheet of paper with crayon drawings and scribbles all over it.

‘Happa birthdaa, Sha-Sha,’ she proclaims proudly and Sherlock blinks.

‘Oh – is that for me? Thankyou, Watson,’ he praises and she raises a hand to her mouth, looking extraordinarily pleased with herself, before hoisting herself up onto the bed beside him, patting his arm, kissing him.

‘There, Sha-Sha. Aaaaaaaallll better.’

‘Yes,’ he agrees softly. ‘All better.’


	5. Sound of Her Voice P3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has nightmares.

* * *

He has nightmares – the cellar in London, the cell in Siberia – and wakes up in the dead of night aching around his middle, dogged by memories of not sleeping for days and being forced to stay on his feet past the point of endurance.

Joanna checks his wounds, stays awake with him while Rosie sleeps; he rests his head on her lap on the sofa and they watch _Endeavour_ on ITV3 as she feeds him small particles of the birthday cake – coconut and raspberry – that Mrs Hudson had made for him especially before it all kicked off. She strokes his hair with the backs of his fingers, safety found in the gap between her thigh and her hand and the scenario of 1960s Oxford becomes a blur as Sherlock drifts in and out of consciousness.

He starts at one point at the sound of gunfire and Joanna immediately shushes him, leans over him like a shelter.

‘It’s just the television, mate,’ she assures and rubs his back, his shoulder until he settles again.

‘Not the way you’re meant to spend your fortieth, I presume,’ he croaks and everything shifts as Joanna laughs dryly.

‘Don’t worry. We’ll try again when you’re forty-one.’ It’s light, but he hears the unspoken proclamation: _I’ll be around to make sure you reach it._ ‘Anyway. Happy birthday.’


	6. Selfless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing fluffy scenelet from TLD.

* * *

Sherlock makes him laugh again. He puts on the deerstalker of his own volition, simply to make John smile again, for the first time in weeks and it works; chuckles bubble up inside John, the sound half-forgotten and escapes his mouth like the relieved first huff of a steam-train, back on the rails after so long on the sidelines, rusting away in his own grief.  

It’s _Sherlock’s_ birthday, but he makes _John_ laugh. And then he smiles back, _mission accomplished,_ a wonderful curve of the lips, battered by John’s fists and drug-abuse and self-blame, yet _still_ standing and John hates himself all over again for what he’s done – for what he _allowed_ himself to become.

But he’s here and he’s promised to take Sherlock for cake, to let him see Rosie (gifts he doesn’t even have to wrap, judging by the look on Sherlock’s face when he says it) and it’s a beautiful day outside and Sherlock is alive, most importantly, survived his ordeal, survived the night.

So John catches up to him downstairs, opens the door for them both, takes Sherlock’s arm to keep him steady as he blinks at the onslaught of sunlight and vows – silently, privately – to make Sherlock smile every single day from now on in their life, their work, their friendship – however long that may be.


	7. Bladdered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drunken shenanigans.

* * *

They get drunk.

Sherlock has only ever been drunk once before with a friend (John’s stag-do) and now they’re out again, Rosie with Mrs Hudson, celebrating his big _4-0_ by rattling up and down the city in different streets, different locations.

There’s also party (tolerable) and a cake baked by Mrs Hudson (acceptable) and a week of grisly murders (very, very good) and a big kiss from Rosie (excellent) but right now, it’s just the two of them against the night and his Mind Palace is floundering, chairs and tables and doors, even, floating, words jumbling, painting the city with new colours, new labels to be and it’s a bit like being high, only nicer.

(Victor Trevor and Redbeard both watch him from a secure, high-shelf in the corner of the Palace; Victor is giggling, Redbeard has his head cocked to the side curiously.

‘Isn’t he funny,’ Victor laughs and Redbeard woofs in agreement. Sherlock beams up at them both, waves).

He reaches out towards the sky, a curious shade of orange or light, maybe it is light, lighty-streelamp-things against fluffy clouds and feels himself pitch forward, his feet finding nothing to grasp –

‘Gotcha, mate.’ John’s voice is clear as a bell, arms anchoring themselves around him, hauling Sherlock upright and steady and safe just before he completely loses his balance.


	8. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grieving. Post-TFP.

* * *

‘Victor Trevor was always kind to me,’ Sherlock murmurs at the ceiling. ‘On my birthday he brought me some chocolate coins. He got them with his pocket money.’

He blinks, the dim light of the room, the simple whiteness of the ceiling blurring around him, suddenly and painfully and he feels it drip down his cheek with the smallest blink.

‘Hey, now…’ John, lying close beside him, dabs at his eyes with a tissue even as more traitorous drops ooze out; shushes him softly, over and over. Sherlock silently grimaces, tears slipping into the crinkles of his eyes. John’s tissue quickly grows soggy.

‘He was a sweet little boy. He didn’t deserve that.’

‘No.’ John shakes his head sadly as Sherlock’s voice trembles, cracks; his friend looks towards him and John can’t hide it, hide his own sadness, his appalled anguish at what Sherlock has endured at his sister’s brutal hands. ‘No, he didn’t.’

 _You did, though,_ says a dim, dark voice at the back of his own mind. After all, would Victor Trevor have blamed his best friend for things so beyond his control? Would he have caused so much damage, left so much chaos in his wake? Would he have lied, disrespected, _cheated?_

He catches himself – _stay with him_ – and remains by Sherlock’s side, right until the morning breaks.


End file.
